


Feel This Loneliness No More

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Different take on their meeting, First Date, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day four: on a date </p><p>Sherlock and John meet in different circumstances, when John moves into 221c after coming back from the war, alongside Gladstone. They are intrigued by each other and soon become friends. </p><p>Then they become more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel This Loneliness No More

**Author's Note:**

> Late one! Sorry about that, I've been idle. 
> 
> Anyway, the title of this chapter comes from another song by Alexi Murdoch, this one called "All My Days". I highly recommend listening to that one, and really all of his work, mainly the ones he wrote for the film Away We Go. 
> 
> Moving along, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Have a nice read! :)

Noises at the foyer arose Sherlock from his musings. He could hear the muffled sounds of what seemed like pleasant conversation on the flat below his. Mrs Hudson had a guest. Obvious. 

But who? 

Now Sherlock was curious. Mostly because he was _so very bored_ , and all of his experiments were finished, and all the cold cases Lestrade had brought the week before had been solved. He sighed and stood up, and went downstairs to snoop. 

‘I’m sure it will be fine, thank you Mrs Hudson,’ said a gentle yet firm voice from inside the flat 221c, while Mrs Hudson stood by the door with that ever-present motherly smile of hers. 

‘Remember, John, I’m just next doors if you need anything. But, mind you, not your housekeeper,’ she winked and there was a chuckle from inside. Mrs Hudson turned away and the door closed. 

‘Who was that?’ asked Sherlock, joining his landlady at the entrance of her flat. She smiled. 

‘That’s the new lodger,’ she replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

‘Yes, that much was obvious. Who is he?’ 

‘Oh, that’s Dr Watson, that is. Nice boy, poor thing was living in a bedsit. Such a lovely man, very shy, mind you. Quiet. More the sitting down type, I can tell,’ she nodded along as she spoke, and Sherlock sighed. Great, a boring new lodger to badger him about his experiments and noise. Perfect. ‘Why don’t you go introduce yourself? God knows, you’re so lonely, would be nice if you had a friend,’ she added. 

‘I don’t need friends,’ Sherlock snarled, turned away and left, hearing Mrs Hudson’s chuckles as he closed the door. 

***

The flat was small, yes, but much nicer than the hell of the bedsit of before. And Afghanistan. So there really wasn’t much to complain about. Gladstone seemed to like it, anyway, so John was happy to be there. Besides, Baker Street was a prime spot, right in the centre without being overcrowded, next to the tube station — perfect. Mrs Hudson had said something about the lodger from 221b being a bit noisy, but John figured that as long as it wasn’t the sound of AK-47s, bombs and cries, it was good enough for him. It might be less boring than his bedsit, anyway. 

As it turned out, it was the noisy which brought John to finally meet 221b. 

It was probably around two in the morning, and John was sitting by the telly, not really paying attention to a re-run of Come Dine with Me when he heard it. It was the softest melody, complicated and intricate, stormy at times, but sweet nonetheless. The notes of the violin filled his flat and made his head turn upwards towards the sound and away from the narrator of the Strongbow advert. 

Gladstone pressed his nose up against John’s leg, and John scratched behind his ears. 

‘What do you think? Check it out? I could say I’m trying to sleep and he’s keeping me awake,’ John told the dog before realising he was an idiot for trying to speak with a dog. He stood up, picked up his cane and went outside. John eyed the staircase wearily, sighing deeply as he limped his way to 221b. Arriving there — it took him longer than he would have liked, but the damn leg… — he knocked quietly on the door. Getting no response, he knocked louder and a figure quickly appeared on the threshold. 

‘What do you want?’ he asked. John was dumbstruck for a moment, staring up at the most unique person he had ever seen. Impossibly tall and lean; the highest, most magnificent cheekbones in the world; stylishly tousled dark hair; deep, scrutinising silver eyes. Who was this man? 

Finding his voice, John cleared his throat and nodded pointedly. 

‘Well, erm, I’m the new lodger from 221c, and your music is—‘ 

‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ the man asked before John finished his sentence. 

‘Excuse me?’ 

You heard me. Afghanistan or Iraq?’ 

‘Afghanist— How did you know?’ 

‘I didn’t know, I saw.’ The man smirked. ‘The way you hold yourself and your haircut say military. Mrs Hudson said your name is Dr John Watson, so army doctor, clearly just returned from service in Afghanistan with a limp that is psychosomatic. I can see that by the way you stand, like you’ve forgotten the pain in your leg, even though you’ve clearly got a limp, judging by the sound of you walking up the stairs,’ he explained, a smugness about him that should have annoyed John, and would have, if he hadn’t been impressed. 

‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ John couldn’t stop himself from saying and mentally slapped his own head for sounding like a ridiculous fanboy. 

‘You really think so?’ the man asked, sounding surprised. John didn’t know why, what he had just done had been extremely impressive. 

‘Yes, truly extraordinary. How do you do that?’ 

‘I observe,’ the man said. ‘I see people that everyone else, being endlessly stupid, ignores. Using my observations, I make deductions.’ 

His neighbour walked back inside and, since he left the door open, John followed him. 

‘Incredible. Oh, who are you, by the way? You already know my name and my profession, even my medical condition, and I know nothing about you.’ 

‘The name is Sherlock Holmes,’ the man said, the strange name fitting him like a glove. ‘You can call me Sherlock.’ 

‘Nice to meet you,’ John smiled. ‘What do you do, then? Do you play professionally? I could actually hear your violin, that’s why I came up.’ 

‘No, the violin is just a tool for my thinking process. I’m a consulting detective,’ Sherlock explained. 

‘Is that like a private detective?’ 

Sherlock shook his head and scoffed. ‘No. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me for help.’ 

‘But the police don’t consult amateurs,’ John pointed out, almost slapping his forehead again for being a nosy, impolite idiot. Sherlock chuckled, though. A deep, throaty sound that made John’s insides go warm like they hadn’t in ages. 

‘You saw how I just deduced you, do you think I’m an amateur?’ 

‘I guess not. That is… Really amazing, truly,’ John said, genuinely, and a bit embarrassed. He could feel himself blush for God’s sake. Idiot, idiot!

He looked at his watch and his eyes widened. Past three in the morning, and he had an job interview the next day. 

‘Well, I have to go,’ he told Sherlock. ‘Have to wake up early.’ 

‘I’ll try to keep the violin down,’ said Sherlock, though John could tell he really, really wasn’t. He smiled. 

‘It’s fine. I just came up to, well, to say that it was… nice, nice playing, that is. I’ll, erm, go, then.’ Kicking himself mentally, John saw himself out without another word. When he closed the door behind him, he sighed. ‘John, you’re a tit,’ he scolded himself. 

***

Frankly, Mrs Hudson could not be happier with the choice to welcome John into 221c. The rent was fair — if a bit under what she would have asked from anybody else — but he more than made up for it. The boy was a sweetheart, always willing to help around the house, which was good because her hip was not what it used to be. And that little bull pup of his, Gladstone, was just the most adorable little thing, loved a good hug. And she could tell he would be good for keeping the building protected. 

But now she knew that what really made John special was how well he got along with Sherlock. 

Nobody ever got along with the poor boy, he was so lonely. He liked to pretend that he didn’t care, but she knew, of course. She had a sixth sense about these things, yes. Always running around, Sherlock was, with his experiments and crime scenes, never ate or slept. At least he was using drugs anymore, but the way he ran himself almost empty, she knew it was only a matter of time. Or it was before John came along. 

John was lovely. He listened to Sherlock’s deductions and praised him — and Mrs Hudson knew he never got praise from those people from the Scotland Yard, not even the Detective Inspector who came around sometimes —, and he was the only one who managed to make Sherlock eat on a regular basis. Whenever Sherlock wasn’t in the middle of an experiment, he was in 221c with John, and there Mrs Hudson knew he was getting warm food and tea, and care. 

And of course, she didn’t mind! We are all God’s children after all. And Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones. Such sweet boys, they are, Mark and Godfrey. So she really hoped that Sherlock and John found that special someone in each other, even if they kept denying it. 

Well, John denied it. Sherlock didn’t seem to pay attention to the comments. 

‘We’re not— we’re just friends, Mrs Hudson. Okay? Just… friends,’ John said one day after she had said how sweet it was the way John took such loving care of Sherlock. She chuckled as Sherlock entered the kitchen of John;s flat. 

‘Do you ever knock?’ asked John, looking up at Sherlock amusedly. Mrs Hudson could laugh at him right there, point at his face and say “I told you so”, because those eyes were those of a man in love. But of course, he would just be evasive. And, besides, it was more fun to just watch them dance around each other to see who would crack first. 

‘You never lock the door,’ Sherlock replied with a shrug. Then they began to bicker like an old married couple and Mrs Hudson saw it as her cue to leave, but not before she prepared them both a nice cuppa. But just this once, she was only their landlady, after all. 

***

After the case with the cabbie, that Dr Watson tagged along with Sherlock more and more often. He seemed to be Sherlock’s friend, which was weird because Lestrade had known the bloke for five years and never once had he known Sherlock to be the friend-having sort of guy. 

This case in particular had ended in a bittersweet note. While they manage to save the last victim just in time and catch the killer, Sherlock had got himself stabbed and was now being fussed over by Dr Watson. 

‘You absolute wanker, you’re lucky he didn’t hit any major blood vessels. You could have been killed, Sherlock,’ the doctor scolded as he pressed his own scarf tightly on Sherlock’s wound, covering it with the detective’s blood. 

‘It’s just a…’ Sherlock winced, ‘scratch, John, no bother.’ 

Dr Watson chuckled humourlessly and continued to press agains the wound. A few moments later, the ambulance arrived and the doctor let the EMTs take over, following Sherlock — who had the deepest frown ever recorded — into the ambulance and holding his hand tightly while trying to both comfort and scold the detective at the same time. 

On second thought, maybe Dr John Watson wasn’t only Sherlock Holmes’s friend, after all. 

***

Six months he had known John now and that strange feeling in his stomach still hadn’t gone away. It was there every time he saw John, every time their hands touched accidentally (or not), every time he thought about the good doctor, and every time he watched John’s mouth praise him unashamedly after he made a deduction. Such an odd sort of feeling. 

Not only that, it was followed by a sort of pang on his chest whenever he saw a woman leave John’s flat in the morning, with a smile on her face and a clear promise to “do this again”, as they said. Now that Sherlock put thought into it, he also felt it whenever John said they weren’t— Oh. 

Oh.

Oh?

Oh!

Of course! How could he have been so stupid! He was attracted to John. 

Well, no, he already knew that. And how could he not be, with John looking all unassuming in his knitted jumpers, having all of that energy and power and ability hidden under soft, comfortable, practical clothing. And that sandy blond hair that looked so soft to touch. Those dark blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight or whenever he smiled. The crooked smile. The strong, calloused yet delicate and firm hands. No, there was no way Sherlock could never not be attracted to John. 

But now he realised. He was more than attracted to his friend, he had feelings for him. Romantic feelings. It took him so long to notice because it was the first time he had felt anything like that before. Odd. Not entirely unpleasant. Except for the part where John was completely and utterly heterosexual and only considered Sherlock a friend. 

Which was an awkward realisation to have while one is having dinner with said best friend with whom one is in love. 

They were at Angelo’s again, since they always got a good, warm, free meal there. John had the lasagne and Sherlock went for the linguini, though he hardly even touched it. 

‘Sherlock, eat you food. You haven’t eaten all day,’ John said after swallowing a mouthful. There was a bit of sauce on the corner of his lip. Sherlock wanted to lick it off. Damn. ‘What’s going on, anyway? Lost inside your Mind Palace again?’ 

Sherlock scoffed. ’No, I’m not—‘ 

Oh, he wanted to punch himself for being so stupid. 

There it was, in the middle of their table. A small, round candle, the wax almost entirely liquid by now. And John hadn’t complained about it. At least Sherlock didn’t hear it. 

‘You didn’t complain about the candle,’ Sherlock stated. John smiled. 

‘Didn’t think you liked to state the obvious.’ 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t. But it’s not obvious. You always complain about the candles, you always claim we’re “not on a date”, but there’s a candle on the table and you haven’t said anything about it.’ 

With another smile, John nodded. ‘True.’ 

After a beat, Sherlock decided to go for it. He breathed slowly. ‘John…’ 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Is this… a date?’ he asked warily. That was it. The question that could end their friendship. But Sherlock didn’t want John to go. He liked John, his jumpers, his scent, he even liked his stupid dog! 

But John was smiling that crooked smile of his, slightly tapping the table with his index finger. 

‘If you want…’ he said quietly. Sherlock realised that he was nervous as well. Maybe he had been feeling these things all along but didn’t know how to express them. John, perfect, wonderful John. Sherlock felt stupid, like a commoner, for not having noticed earlier and done something about it. ‘Do you…?’ asked John, finally, and Sherlock realised he hadn’t spoken in a while. 

Sherlock placed a hand on top of John’s and smiled back. His throat was dry because of those ridiculous nerves, so he couldn’t speak properly, so he nodded. 

John grinned widely, and they continued to eat their meal in silence, only now it was a tense sort of comfortable that came with legs touching suggestively under the table and glances being exchanged surreptitiously. 

By the end of the evening, after their meal and their good-byes to Angelo and their walk home while holding hands, it was a good thing that John lived on the ground floor, because with the way they were all over each other as soon as the door to the building closed, Sherlock deduced they would never have made it up to 221b.


End file.
